


Flood Tide

by cemeterycardio



Category: Crier's War Series - Nina Varela
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, TW: Blood, but consider this: the guilt, might throw a Rowan scene in here somewhere who knows, no Iron Heart spoilers, so we got through two novels of pining, takes place somewhere in Crier's War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29452779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cemeterycardio/pseuds/cemeterycardio
Summary: “I’ll be more cautious,” Crier’s voice was a whisper. “I shouldn’t fall when you aren’t there to save me.”Ayla is certain something happened to Crier in the woods, but what? Can she navigate her feelings for Crier and the added threat to her life within the palace walls?
Relationships: Crier/Ayla, ayla/crier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Flood Tide

Winter, Year 47 AE

Ayla found herself in Crier’s chambers under stranger circumstances than usual. The Sovereign and his daughter were supposed to be on a hunt with Scyre Kinok, but Crier returned alone, in the dark hours before dawn - significantly earlier than expected. A servant woke Ayla, told her she was needed immediately. Now it seemed Crier wasn’t in her chamber at all, although it was difficult to tell when the only light winked from a single dwindling lantern. Ayla sighed as the door rasped shut behind her. _What could possibly be this urgent?_

“Ayla?” Crier’s voice wavered through the dark somewhere behind the tangled gossamer web of fabric that draped her four-poster bed. Something about the way Crier said her name always snared the reply in Ayla’s throat, splintered it like kindling.

“I’m here, my lady,” Ayla answered, swallowing the slivers, biting back the _Why?_

“There was-” Crier paused. “I had an accident in the woods.”

“An accident? Are you-” _What, alright? What kind of question was that? It would be better if she wasn’t alright._ And yet, the memory of Crier’s bleeding arm slipping beneath her hand, the wildness of her brown eyes, the tears on her cheeks that day on the cliffs; bright memories exploding behind Ayla’s eyes.

“We were hunting,” Crier said as if Ayla didn’t know, as if she hadn’t helped Crier prepare for the trip. Crier emerged from where she could only be considered as hiding. It took a moment for Ayla to process what she was seeing in the near darkness: Crier’s hair, a haphazard halo around her face, her eyes dark and downcast, her dress torn in places. Overall, she was covered in what appeared to be a good chunk of the forest. “My horse, she-” she gestured, the words seemingly flitting in the air around her. “I fell.” 

Crier wouldn’t meet her eyes. Ayla thought she looked almost embarrassed, were Automae capable of shame. Unless… _Crier is a terrible liar._ _What happened?_ Angrily, _Why do I care?_

“I can see that.” As her eyes adjusted, she noticed scratches that covered Crier’s arms. Automae healed quickly; the gashes must’ve been deep to still be evident on her Made skin - her Made skin, covered in crusted violet blood and… was that sap?

“I can’t get it off,” Crier said, picking at the dark, sticky substance on her arms. 

“You need oil,” Ayla said. She had been working in the palace for weeks now and she still hadn’t managed to get the sticky residue out of her callouses.

“So you’ll help me?” Crier asked, finally meeting Ayla’s eyes. Crier’s eyes sparked gold as they caught the flickering lantern light; a tide spun in them and crested somewhere in Ayla’s chest.

“We’ll need to get the briars out first.” 

This was going to be a long chore, Ayla realized as Crier drew closer to her. She couldn’t even see the top of Crier’s head from this angle, thanks to their height difference, but twigs were tangled into Crier’s unraveling braid; the sap wasn’t only on her skin, as Ayla had thought, but in her hair. _Gods_.

Ayla reached out to pick a leaf from the curls at the nape of Crier’s neck. She looked almost human, disheveled in this way. There was a scratch along the crest of her clavicle; it rose and fell with her breath. Something about it made Ayla ache. As her fingers drew back from the shadowed curve of Crier’s neck she watched - heard - Crier swallow. Ayla’s eyes trailed Crier’s jaw, scrutinized the gash along one cheek. Crier’s eyes bored down into hers, flint to the tinder of Ayla’s throat. Ayla stepped back, smoke on her tongue. 

“You should sit down.” Ayla turned away towards the stool in front of Crier’s mirror; the place where she tried to do anything but meet Crier’s gaze which always lingered on Ayla’s reflection.

“No,” Crier’s voice stopped Ayla short. “I don’t want to see. Please,” she gestured to the edge of the bed as she kneeled on the floor, facing Ayla. She _kneeled_ , head bowed, gaze fixed on the floor at Ayla’s feet. Arduously, Ayla uprooted herself and walked haltingly towards Crier’s bed.

She hovered behind Crier until her thighs burned, too afraid to relax into the soft mattress beneath her for even a moment. Because it wouldn’t stop there. Her body would hold the memory of it, the memory of her weight on Crier’s bed, the way Crier’s throat swelled as she swallowed - _no_. She couldn’t.

Tendril by agonizing tendril, Ayla pulled the debris from Crier’s hair. She was rough at first, but Crier made a small, pained sound. Was it really that bad, or was she biting back something else? _Gods, stop thinking about her._ After what felt like an eternity, Crier was mostly forest-free. 

“You’ll have to brush the oil through it and then wash it. I’ll draw your bath,” Ayla ground out; her jaw held fast, imprisoned the questions she wanted to ask. Crier’s expression was blank as she tilted her head slightly in a nod. Ayla swept the twigs into the cold hearth. 

Crier’s bathing chamber was a holy place unto itself, one that made Ayla feel every inch of grime on her own skin, every shameful, traitorous drop of blood that was drawn to Crier. 

Light from an eastern window shone against the dark walls, shadow now bowing to luminous morning. The bathtub, an enormous copper basin, took up enough space to comfortably fit two Automae; _or an Automa and a human_ , she tried not to think. A gleaming gold swan crested the lip of the tub, water pouring from its delicate neck. The water pulled from a well, warmed by the Maker’s symbols that dusted the swan’s feathers, obscenely ornate in design. A small wooden stool perched on the floor opposite the swan, simple but polished, nearly swallowed by the lush ferns that fanned around the tub. The room smelled forest-sweet; it smelled like Crier’s voice sounded: moss-quiet and soothing. 

When Ayla returned after filling the bath, Crier’s perfectly arched brows were furrowed, her long fingers a vise around the handle of her brush. She wore the same expression when she was poring over a particularly detailed text - a palimpsest of Maker’s symbols.

“It’s so tangled,” she said, more to herself than Ayla. Ayla sighed. 

“Get in,” Ayla gestured towards the bath.

“But I haven’t gotten the oil through it yet-” Crier protested.

“Do you want my help or not?” Ayla spat. Crier, as meekly as a leech could, nodded.

The bath steamed softly, iridescent vapor glittering over Crier’s skin. Ayla began undoing Crier’s dress, the laces gasping with each hook of her fingers. With every pull Crier at once hardened and softened, a statue afraid to melt. Ayla wanted to keep touching her, never stop touching her; wanted to see if she could mold Crier into something different, something human. _You can’t._

Ayla turned away as Crier’s dress pooled to the floor. There were some things Ayla simply couldn’t - _wouldn’t_ \- allow herself. 

When she heard the water whisper around Crier, Ayla sighed through gritted teeth and turned towards her. Crier seemed more removed than usual as she stared at the blood on her arms.

“Alright, just… just lean your head back and don’t move,” Ayla said. _How pointless, asking a leech to hold still._

Ayla sat on the stool at Crier’s back, determined to focus on Crier’s hair. Not that she wanted to look anywhere else. She pooled oil in her hands and smoothed it into the ends of Crier’s hair, gradually working towards the roots. It was methodical, mesmerizing; a much easier task than she had thought. As Ayla’s fingers raked against her scalp, Crier’s breath hitched for a moment and Ayla froze. 

“Did I hurt you?” Ayla said, her voice gentler than she had meant. 

“No,” Crier breathed. “No. Is it gone?” 

“No,” Ayla replied sharply. It was only a partial lie. Something tethered her to Crier, as binding as the sap. Ayla’s fingers resumed their path along Crier’s scalp seemingly without Ayla’s permission. She was so hyper-focused on Crier’s breath that the steadiness of it entranced her. Time solidified. The water rippled around Crier’s body as she drifted under Ayla’s touch.

“Alright,” she said and Crier started at the suddenness of her voice. How terribly human she could be. “You’ll have to rinse it out now.” She moved to stand but Crier laid her hand over Ayla’s, trapping it against her shoulder. 

“Can you help?” Crier asked, glancing over her shoulder at Ayla who hovered awkwardly between sitting and standing.

“Is that a command?” Ayla didn't know how much more she could stand. There was such a fine line between want and hate.

“I’ve never had this happen before.” Whether she meant the accident or someone washing her hair this way, Ayla didn’t know. “Automae don’t-”

“Make fools of themselves?” Ayla finished. Crier’s face contorted, lips moving into a sad, pained smile. _Don’t feel bad. She deserves it._

“You need to lean back so your hair is in the water,” Ayla said, returning to the task at hand. She didn’t account for the way Crier seamlessly moved forward, baring her back to Ayla before slowly lowering herself backwards and - _oh_. Crier’s chest rose above the surface, droplets running in rivulets off her perfect skin. Ayla watched as the water rippled against the copper tub and echoed back in never-ending circles; she wondered how it felt to be the water lapping against Crier’s neck. 

“You’re not breathing.” Crier said. Her eyes were shut, her expression blank. 

“No. Sometimes I forget,” Ayla replied. She meant to sound mocking, echoing Crier’s response of weeks ago. Instead she parroted the softness of Crier’s tone that night they slept together. Slept _next to each other._

Ayla reached into the water, Crier’s hair floating around her fingers like the seaweed that washed along the shore of the cliffs. She dug her fingers along Crier’s scalp, trying to loosen some of the oil. The bath water began to turn grey.

“Sit up,” Ayla said, her voice rough as the rocks that had slipped under Crier’s feet, as rough as the rocks that had surrounded them in the tide pool. Crier obeyed. Ayla lathered soap onto her hands, working it over Crier’s scalp and through the ends of her hair. Her fingers lingered on the nape of Crier’s neck and she felt Crier expel a breath, a different small sound she hadn’t heard before. Ayla tore herself away and got up, gathering a pitcher of warm, clear water. 

“I’ll rinse it out,” she said, her voice guarded once again. When she turned towards Crier, Crier’s knees were tucked up under her chin in the bath. Once again, she looked small, human. _But she isn’t_ , Ayla reminded herself. _She’s a murderer. They all are._

It took a few pitchers and another round of soap until Crier’s hair once again returned to its brilliance.

“Could you get it off my arms?” Crier asked hesitantly. She withdrew her hands from the water; it was only then that Ayla noticed the deep gashes across her palms, dirt caked into the wounds. _Gods, what had happened?_

Unbidden tears rose to Ayla’s eyes and she blinked them back angrily. She remembered a time when Benjy got caught stealing from the marketplace. The shopkeeper hadn’t scolded him publicly where an Automa guard could hear; instead, he took Benjy behind the shop and whipped his palms. They tore open; Rowan had bandaged them and told Ayla to take over Benjy’s work load. The memory of those gashes and the scars that remained superimposed over Crier’s. She could feel Crier watching her.

The first time Ayla held the locket, she had been so careful. It was so delicate, a bird in her small hand. She had been terrified of holding it too tight, of breaking it. Now Crier’s hands seemed just as delicate. Touch feather-light, Ayla brushed oil across Crier’s bloody palm. Crier hissed through her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Ayla whispered, hardly a sound at all. She worked the oil over Crier’s delicate wrist, rubbing small circles across her forearm, up her bicep, _so close to her chest_. The sap was sticky on her skin, the caked blood rough beneath her calloused fingers. She couldn’t meet Crier’s eyes, couldn’t let herself be pulled further in - she would implode. 

Ayla repeated the slow, soft circles on Crier’s opposite arm, the sap swirling and melting away. The gashes were deeper on this arm, rising up across her shoulder, as though Crier fought her way out of something and got herself tangled - had to wrench herself free. Ayla ran a trembling finger over the cut on Crier’s clavicle. Slowly, as if she were afraid of Crier - as if she were afraid of herself - she cupped handfuls of water over Crier’s arms, rinsing away the last of the blood. 

A stain remained on her upper arm and Ayla frowned. She rubbed at it a little more roughly before she realized with quiet horror that Crier was bruised. She didn’t even think Automae capable of bruising. She hadn’t seen one this hurt up close. She dipped Crier’s hands and forearms into the water, pushing the water against Crier’s wounded palms rather than touching them again.

“Thank you,” Crier said, snapping Ayla out of her trance, bringing her back to where she was, _who_ she was.

“You should be more careful. I don’t want to have to do this again,” Ayla said sharply, withdrawing her hands from the water and standing up.

“I’ll be more cautious,” Crier’s voice was a whisper. “I shouldn’t fall when you aren’t there to save me.” Ayla bristled.

“Ayla-”

“If that’s everything, I’ll take my leave, my lady,” her voice crashed out of her.

“Of course,” Crier nodded. “Thank you, handmaiden,” she said, an Automa again. 

Ayla tried not to run out of her chambers.

 _I shouldn’t fall when you aren’t there to save me._ The words echoed in Ayla’s head as she numbly walked out of the palace. She shouldn’t have saved Crier. That was never the plan. She shouldn’t be here, thinking these things, _feeling_ these things. She clutched her locket so tightly, willing the warmth to sear the memories away. The feeling of Crier’s soft hair floating in the water around her fingers. _No._ The sight of water streaming down Crier’s perfect chest. _Stop thinking about her._ The sharp intake of breath through her teeth. _Stop._ Ayla’s name arching reverently from her soft mouth. _Gods._

Ayla was a flood tide beneath Crier’s celestial pull, helpless to surrender.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me trying to get everyone I know to read this book so I can yell about it. If you can relate, feel free to yell about it in the comments. Thanks for reading <3


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